


Take Me Back, I Beg Thee!

by skjorn (astoxis)



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking The Fourth Wall (a little), Gen, How Do I Tag, i don't know what im doing, poor ornstein, quite ooc, send help, the author is driving himself crazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 04:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astoxis/pseuds/skjorn
Summary: The mighty Dragon Slayer. Lost to  a vulgarly dressed human with a block of alloy masquerading as a sword (not really). How utterly shameful. Andre, O, Andre, making such a travesty of a weapon. Even refining the sword was a good enough reason to criticize the blacksmith. Ornstein  needed a vacation badly; perhaps stop by Darkroot Garden for a short walk. He'd even have the excuse of cooing over Sif without losing his pride by claiming that he missed the (adorably) damned dog. What happens instead of having his vacation? He'd been transported into an alternate reality, and now has to travel with fools, pretending to be their ally (he isn't becoming fond of them, he swears). Humans, such an amusing race (but damned were they good at annoying him). Stuck with the one he had thought he managed to get away from in his last moments of his previous life. He couldn't even escape now even if he tried again, for he knows he would truly be dead this time. (Lord Gwyn must be laughing at him, now, seeing him reduced to such a state). Pah.Not quite a serious story. Also not sure where I'm going with this plot, but I'll figure something out later.





	Take Me Back, I Beg Thee!

The chosen undead stood before him. _Him_ , the captain of Gwyn's four knights. How daring. Ornstein scoffed internally. How could his fellow knights have fallen to this - this _uncultured_   _barbarian_ , this nearly naked man, unarmored, caked in dried blood, mud and other foul, unknown substances, lower bits covered in a dirty, almost blackened rag and wielding a large sword that was almost as big as his torso. Was this a cruel joke made by fate? Had the gods really given up on him? Did he really have to fight this - this _savage?_ Disbelieving thoughts ran through his mind faster than Artorias could dash across a room. Ornstein sighed. He gazed upon the chosen undead's smug, smirking face dispassionately, lamenting for he knew, deep in his mind - that he would lose. Obviously, for he was called the chosen undead for a reason. This one would be his downfall, no matter how... uncouth he looked. He had fallen thousands before this man, and now he would be the one to fall, to that massive Black Knight Great Sword, which was currently carelessly slung over the bare shoulder of the filthy undead. He shuddered. He would never understand how humans could sink the sharp edge of their heavy swords into their pauldron-less shoulders. Were they mad? New Game+ players - he's never understood why someone would do the exact thing repeatedly over and over, and expecting something to change. That was the definition of insanity, was it not? He'd quoted something that was not of his world - at least, that was what it felt like. Ornstein didn't know what a 'New Game' was, nor did he know where the odd phrase came from. Ornstein laughed mockingly under his breath. There were no other worlds; what a preposterous thought! The world he lived in was the only one he knew, and the only one that would concern him. No matter. He never had a chance of survival to begin with - he could recognize Andre's fine work anywhere. That sword was a +5 Black Knight Sword, he was sure of it, although he didn't really understand how the undead could have scourged up resources so fast to achieve such a strong sword - and wait, was that sword originally Alveston's?

...Was that what the 'New Game' was referring to? Having an advantage from the start? Ornstein theorised. He quickly shook the thought out of his head. There would be no fourth-wall breaking here, a stray thought crossed his mind. What was a fourth wall? Well, forget it. He'd better stop musing about such things during battle. He doesn't wish to know any longer. Back to the main topic; Ornstein was going to die here, in this hall. He was too weak! He didn't have his breakfast yet, his knees weak, palms sweaty - mom's spa- ('Stop', Ornstein hissed to himself) and he skipped supper last night! He didn't have enough energy, - he was too busy admiring (he was not!) - he was polishing and buffing his armor to its fullest to be bothered do so! (Not that he procrastinated or anything, no nothing like that at all. It was planned timing, and he _definitely_ wanted to see the sun rise and shine its incandescent golden rays across the shiny surface).  Ornstein squeezed his eyes tightly together, pushing back the urge to place his face in his palms and _cry_.  
  
  
  
He didn't do that, of course. He was Ornstein, The Dragonslayer.

  
  
The chosen undead twirled his huge sword in his hands disinterestedly - _somehow_ -, as if he knew that Ornstein was having a minor mental breakdown and was waiting for him to get over it. Ornstein resisted the urge to sigh again. Maybe he would have had a chance if Smough had not fallen so fast. Smough, the useless, _bumbling_ _idiot_. He had rushed in, completely ignoring the overly complicated plan he had spent precious hours, no, _days_   pouring over, and had fell to the bloody chosen undead within a mere few hits. Ornstein felt like - well, he didn't know what to feel. Sure, maybe he had already predicted it a long time ago, maybe, he knew, Smough wouldn't care about his extremely complex plans, maybe - just _maybe_ , he knew that Smough's tiny mind ('Not very much, for he was too cunning for his own good,' Ornstein conceded) would not be able to comprehend the complicated instructions he had given, and perhaps, he didn't want to die before Smough and be seen as the weaker one - he had a reputation to uphold! - but that wasn't important. What was important, however, was that the chosen undead seemed to have gotten too impatient and was now rushing him like a bull.  
  
  
  
Ornstein gracefully twisted out of the straight path of the sword, dodging the slice meant for him. No, it was too large to be called a sword. It was a metal slab. "You're going down, lion boy!" The chosen corpse - who couldn't make up his mind whether or not if he wanted to live or die - taunted. Not very imaginative, Ornstein noted, for even Smough had made that unfunny joke previously, before his, _ah,_ annihilation. "Scared, furry lover?" Furry lover? That was a new one. He had never heard of the phrase before. On the slight possibility of his survival after the battle, he would have to search out the book where he had logged all of the queer, outlandish expressions which he had learnt of recently. The walking flea magnet smirked as if he had successfully offended the mildly disgruntled knight. Ornstein stared back at him, unimpressed. "Take — this!" The moving blob of flesh grunted as he flung the sharp sheet of tempered steel at at him.

Well, at least, he attempted to. In reality, the lump of steel flew less than three feet away from the filthy piece of babbling meat. Ornstein looked on, an unseen eyebrow raised. Really? He curbed the compulsion to sigh yet again, for the third time. "I - I intended to do that!" The - the - honestly, he couldn't even bother to name it any longer. The great hunk of steel and something smashed together finally fell to the floor, somehow defying gravity, pointy end face down. Ornstein was sure that the sword was not supposed to have stayed in the air for so long. Oh well, he thought, shrugging his shoulders. Miyazaki probably overlooked this glaring bug, he mused, although he wasn't quite sure who this 'Miyazaki' person was. He was slowly getting a slight headache from all of these sudden and redundant information. Cursing, he swore that someone who was controlling his fate was definitely fooling around with him. His mind snapped back to the scene unfolding in front of him, scolding himself for having been so easily distracted.

Ornstein watched as the huge ingot of refined metal slowly sank into the ornate floor as his mind tried to process the utter destruction he was seeing. The rude human blinked at the hilt that was sticking out of the ground then rushed towards it as Ornstein began to unconsciously shake in despair. The - thing - gave a flimsy laugh as he struggled to pull his, no, its sword out from the ground. 'Please, don't kill me. Smough alone was an absolute bitch to kill! I don't want to start over again!' The expression on human's face read, as he let out a pitiful whine. Ornstein's hidden face fell in horror as he came to a terrifying realisation. The - the floor. His beautiful, magnificent floor. The floor he had worked on for five years to fix after he had destroyed it on a -shocking- accident, leading to crumbling, soot-covered marble left in its wake. The nerve of this human! Absolutely no appreciation for fine art! he fumed. Surely, surely this was too much for Ornstein to take.

 

He ignored the flailing chosen undead who was tugging at his sword desperately as he raised his golden spear up into the air - and struck down hard. The undead's eyes widened almost comically and shrieked in terror, a high pitched and absolutely unmanly sound as his hands slackened from the hilt and rose to cover his face in fear. When he realised he was not dead, he peeked upwards - and realised that Ornstein had stabbed himself through the gut. "W - what…?" The undead squeaked. Ornstein parted his dry, cracked lips and broke the silence he had kept in perhaps more than a millennium.

  
  
Honor and duties alike be damned, the reparation of the floor was more difficult than any enemy he had faced before. Lady Gwynevere's standards of aesthetics were too high even for him, illusion or not. Thus, the Dragon Slayer shirked his unofficial duties in the only way he knew how. He had learnt a trick from the knights - they ran into the enemies' swords, dramatically announced their last words and promptly died. He never understood why they would do that when it was obvious that their efforts were to evade the yearly cleaning week (they regularly moaned about having to tidy up their bunkers before that very week), however, he had now realised the simplistic ingenuity behind their methods. If he couldn't escape the living gods, he would just pass into the afterlife. They couldn't follow him there, right? Obviously not - otherwise, why else would the knights decide to die? He may not have had an enemy to help him with his escapade (the undead didn't count, he didn't even have a weapon in his possession any longer - the floor had decided to consume it), however, he did have his own spear. It was too late to sit down and consider possible outcomes, for he had already done the deed.  
  


 

  
"I'm not repairing that floor again," the knight breathed as he deftly escapes from his responsibility.  
  
  
  


  
The Lion dropped to the floor with an echoing 'thump', fading away as the shell-shocked undead watched, palms now at his sides, jaw gaping as he attempted to fully comprehend what had happened in front of him, the forgotten sword still stuck in the ground.

 

A veil of stillness lingered after. "... ... ," The thoroughly confused chosen undead tried to search for words to accurately sum up what he had just witnessed as his mouth flopped open and closed over and over, imitating a fish gasping desperately for (dissolved) air. Finally, with a click, his jaw clasped together as he breathed in through his nose deeply.  
  
  
  
  
"What the fuck."

**Author's Note:**

> TL;DR: Ornstein has a tiny flashback of the time he had to repair the floor (it was either replace the whole thing or have an area that looked different from the rest of the floor, i swear i dont have previous experience (yes i have)) 
> 
> The story is a mess, i'm a mess - but im still happy with it. its confusing - but what do i know, the only stories i ever write are essays.
> 
> I'm a slow updater, but I'll get there eventually. I guess. 
> 
> Anyways, this was the prologue/thing. Next chapter will probably be Ornstein waking in a new world. We'll see. Plans change all the time.


End file.
